


In the Aftermath

by StopTalkingAtMe



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Grief/Mourning, Sexual Content, The Battle for Windhelm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-09-26
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:08:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26179987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StopTalkingAtMe/pseuds/StopTalkingAtMe
Summary: He’d told himself it was madness. That he was seeing things. That it couldn’t have been her. She wouldneverin all his dreams have bought this raging Oblivion down on his head.Except that she had.
Relationships: Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn/Quintus Navale
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24
Collections: Press Start VI





	In the Aftermath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atramento](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atramento/gifts).



Windhelm had long since gone quiet. Silence had settled over its labyrinthine streets and steps of grey stone, littered with debris from the attack. In a tent set up outside of the city walls, the wounded lay stretched out on lines of bedrolls. Most were sleeping now, although one or two still suffered. Quintus sat slumped in a chair, exhausted to his very bones. He’d been at work since long before the battle had even started: the moment it was clear bloodshed was imminent, he’d ransacked his supplies and begun to mix as many healing potions, tonics, and salves as he could in preparation for the aftermath, which had been long and stretched-out and bloody.

For a long time, there’d been nothing but the rush. Body after body, some too badly injured to be saved, and not a moment to rest. He’d never claimed to be much of a healer, but there were too many injured, and too few healers to care for them, and so he’d been commandeered anyway by the Legion healer, Claudine, a wiry Breton with the look of a terrier about her.

He lost himself in the work, grinding up more potions in what few moments of respite he could snatch. There’d barely even been a moment to catch his breath, barely enough time even to rinse off his bloodstained hands, numbly watching the water turn pink, and running a tally in his mind of how many they’d saved, how many they couldn’t do anything for, and how many lives still hung in the balance.

The priests from the Temple of Talos had been commandeered too, grim-faced and hostile at having to work alongside the Legion healers, up until the point that the constant waves of the injured wore away their hostility, and they too lost themselves in the work. It had been an awkward sort of truce, everyone present turning a blind eye to the amulets of Talos, evidence of heresy which elsewhere in Skyrim would have got them dragged away in a heartbeat.

He supposed, thinking bleakly of Cyrodiil and everything he’d escaped there, that would be the case in Windhelm too, now that the Empire had won.

That was a bitter thought, another twist of the knife in his heart, even if he had lived all his life in the shadow of the White-Gold Concordat and had never once held Talos as a patron god. It rankled: he’d heard too many stories from his Heartland mother of the glory days of the Empire to feel otherwise.

No one quite seemed to know what had happened to the Jarl. He’d already heard several accounts: that the Imperials were keeping the Jarl alive so as to hand him over to be interrogated by the Thalmor, or the military governor had slain him in an honourable fight to the death… And another story, one which he’d heard from a wounded Stormcloak even younger than Quintus himself, and which he was desperately hoping wasn’t true: that the Dragonborn herself had Shouted Ulfric to death just as he had done to the High King.

Whichever way it happened, the heart had been cut out of the civil war. Quintus knew he should have been relieved. He’d never had much love for the Jarl: hard to, really, when most of Ulfric’s supporters looked at him and saw him only as an Imperial and an enemy, but he’d tended to too many of the dead and the dying that night to feel quite content with the manner in which victory had been won.

The brazier crackled. He hunched forwards in his seat, and was wondering if he should mix up another potion or two when he saw Claudine’s gaze flit to the opening of the tent.

And he knew. Straight away, although he wouldn’t have been able to say how.

It was something about her, the habit she had of just turning up, and never letting him know when or where he’d see her next. She’d just appear, looking a little older, a little more battered, but stronger too, with better armour, better weapons. A more palpable air of threat about her. There were some alchemy ingredients like that: the more you worked them in a pestle and mortar the more powerful they’d get.

Unwillingly, he glanced around. She was standing in the doorway of the tent, hesitant to come in, like she was leery of the dying, or perhaps of him.

In a kind of numbed shock, he realised she was wearing heavy Legion armour. The armour of a legate, the helmet clasped beneath her arm. He hadn’t even known she was in the Legion.

Although... There had been a moment during the night when he’d stumbled out of the tent in the desperate hope that the fresh air might stop him from throwing up (it hadn’t, but it _had_ helped him feel better), and thought he’d glimpsed her amongst a group of Imperial soldiers.

He’d told himself it was madness. That he was seeing things. That it couldn’t have been her. She would _never_ in all his dreams have bought this raging Oblivion down on his head. Except that she had.

“Hello, Quintus,” she said.

 _How could you,_ he wanted to say. She held his gaze, her own steady, filled with sorrow but not the slightest trace of guilt.

He swung away, turning his back on her. “Are you in need of healing?”

“I’m a little battered, but nothing that’s likely to kill me.”

“That’s something, I suppose. I’m glad, Antonia. I really am.”

She came inside, ducking under the flap, “You’re angry with me.”

His jaw clenched, he looked up at her, taking in the bruise swelling her eye. She smelled of woodsmoke and iron, of fresh sweat and frost. “You never told me you were in the Legion.”

“You _are_ angry with me.” She cast her gaze over the bedrolls, scanning the length of the tent until it had reached Claudine. In disbelief, Quintus watched as Antonia jerked her head towards the entrance, and Claudine obeyed, slipping out. One of the perks of command, he supposed. “I’m not in the Legion,” she said. “Not really. I’m an auxiliary. They only took me on because of Helgen.”

“You told me they tried to execute you at Helgen.”

“They did.” She grimaced, rubbing at the bridge of her nose. “It’s hard to explain.”

“It’s not that hard, really. You lied to me. You could have told me...”

“What? That I’d joined up to help bring an end to the civil war? This is Windhelm, Quintus, and I couldn’t be sure...”

“That you could trust me?”

“I didn’t mean that. Of course I trust you.”

He gestured at her armour, his voice rising a little higher than he’d intended, “Obviously.” At the flash of hurt on her face, he caught himself and swallowed down his rage. “I’m sorry,” he said more quietly. “It’s been a long night.”

“For me too. And I’ll probably be off in the morning. I just… I wanted to see you before I left. We’ll be moving out early, I expect. Business back in Solitude.”

“Are you staying at Candlehearth Hall?”

She shook her head. “The army camp. I doubt I’d get much of a welcome at Candlehearth Hall tonight.”

“No,” he agreed with uncustomary bitterness. “You’re probably right.”

She stared at him a moment, then gave a weary nod. “I’m glad you’re safe. After everything that’s happened this past year… Well. I’ll let you be.” Resting her hand on his shoulder, she leant close and pressed her lips to his cheek. “Goodnight, Quintus.”

He hadn’t meant to but he laid his hand on hers and clasped it warmly. “Goodnight.”

And then she was gone. Quintus had glanced around just in time to see her slip beneath the flap of the tent and vanish out into the darkness, and he was still watching the entrance when Claudine slipped back inside and caught him.

She gave him an exasperated look. “So that’s it, is it?”

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Gods save me from stubborn young men. Go after her, you dolt. Or do you intend to punish her for something she had no choice in?”

“You need me here.”

She gestured around the tent. “No, I don’t. Things are quiet now, and in any case you’ve been working flat out. Not that I haven’t appreciated your help. Windhelm’s lucky to have such a dedicated and compassionate alchemist, but you’re exhausted, lad. Go get some food and some sleep. And you can consider that an order.”

“I’m not in the Legion. I don’t have to take orders from you.”

“See, you’re wrong about that. In this tent, I’m in charge, and if you’re worn out you’re no good to me.” She relented a little. “Look, you don’t have to go after her. Whatever it is between you, well, that’s your business, and she’s a weird one, the Dragonborn. Just... get some rest. You look like you need it. And be sure to put together an itemised list of every ingredient, potion and sundry item we’ve used. Everything, mind you. I’ll make certain you’re recompensed. The Legion pays its debts.”

Outside, he hesitated, turning his head towards the fires of the Legion camp. Antonia was standing with her head tilted upwards towards the skies, which were clear and streaming with ribbons of light.

And she was in pain. He hadn’t been able to see it in the tent: he’d been too shocked at the sight of her in Legion armour to look at her closely, but he could see it now in the way she was holding herself tilted to one side. She was injured, and in a significant amount of pain, just hiding it well.

His boots crunched in the snow, so she had to have heard him, but she didn’t look around, just waited for him to approach.

“You do need healing,” he said. He hadn’t meant to make his voice sound so accusatory.

“Just bruises,” she said, and he frowned at her, guessing she was lying. She glanced at him, then gave a weary lopsided smile. “Fine, maybe a cracked rib or two.”

“Why didn’t you stay in the tent and let one of us tend to you?”

“Because this isn’t going to kill me, and you both looked exhausted.”

“And angry?”

“That too.” She let out a sigh, her breath frosting on the air. “I know how you must feel...”

“Do you? I haven’t seen you for over a months, Antonia. Not since...” His mind hitched on the memory, the night in her rented room in Candlehearth Hall. He’d still been reeling both from his grief for his master and from the news that, in lieu of other heirs, Nurelion had left everything to him. He remembered her skin bronzed by flames, her many scars seeming like writing beneath his touch. Flushing, he looked away.

“How is the shop?” she asked, changing the subject.

“It’s doing well.” Better under his hand, in fact, than it ever had under Nurelion’s. Customers who’d used to trudge up to the Jarl’s grizzled old warlock for worse prices and a smaller selection rather than deal with the old Altmer had proved more willing to do business with him, even if he still hadn’t got anywhere near Nurelion’s skill. And he was proud to say he was improving. Amongst everything bequeathed to him had been Nurelion’s notebooks, representing several human lifetimes of scholarship and experimentation, even if a significant chunk of them involved the search for the White Phial. It was a slow business deciphering Nurelion’s crabbed Altmeris, but he’d relished every moment, and it felt at times as if he had his old master with him once again, peering sourly over his shoulder. Even if it was only because the process tended to give him a headache.

“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to it,” he admitted. “I keep expecting him to criticise all the changes I’ve made, or gripe about my going through his things. I’m struggling to get used to the idea that it’s all mine now.”

“You miss him?”

“Very much so.” He straightened up, swallowing. “By the gods, this is ridiculous, after everything we’ve been through... Come to the shop. I’ll see if there’s anything I can do for your injuries. Have you eaten?”

She shook her head.

“Nor have I.” There’d been food brought to the tent, but in the midst of the rush there hadn’t been time to eat, and he wouldn’t have been able to stomach anything in any case. But he was a young man, and his appetite was returning in a rush now that the worst was over. “There’s some soup I can heat up, I think.”

She was quiet for a long time, so long he was certain she’d refuse, then she inclined her head. “All right. Let me change first. Tonight’s not a good night to parade through the streets in Legion armour.”

When she returned, she wore no armour at all, but a set of simple merchant’s clothes which would fool literally no one. Quintus held out his arm out, and she hooked her elbow through his.

The streets of Windhelm were still and silent and shrouded with snow, most windows still shuttered and dark, but there seemed an air of watchfulness about the city. Legionnaires had been stationed throughout the city to keep a watch out for any resurgence of a Stormcloak attack, and many of them hailed her, one or two even eyeing Quintus with suspicion or naked envy. She returned their greetings with an easy manner, yet more evidence of the life she led beyond the city walls of Windhelm.

Another reminder of how little he knew about her. How much did he know? That she was a mercenary; that she’d been born in Cheydinhal; that she knew enough Alchemy to mix up a few potions but had little skill beyond that. That she was supposedly the Dragonborn, and while in theory he knew what that meant, he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.

The first time she’d turned up in the shop one day, she’d first irritated Nurelion by using the Alchemy table to mix up the ingredients she’d bought – he even begrudged Quintus using that table – and had then mollified him by asking about the Phial. Few people listened to Nurelion’s stories. Quintus, to his shame, had long since stopped taking notice himself, but _she_ had taken notice. His master had never been the most personable of men, but she listened, quiet and solemn, and then nodded.

“I’ll see what I can do,” she’d said. Quintus had assumed she was humouring Nurelion, and liked her a little better for it (and he’d already been predisposed to like her: she was a fellow Imperial, and a pretty one at that). He hadn’t really thought she’d do it, but she did, even if the damn thing was broken, and then, when he thought he’d found a way to fix it, she’d managed that too.

Once, after Nurelion had taken to his sickbed, she’d turned up wounded in the middle of the night. An ice wraith had mauled her, leaving a vicious slash across her chest, the edges of the wound blackened with frostbite. He’d sat her down, relieved at the change of pace from caring for Nurelion, and mixed up a salve he’d been working on, which incorporated a numbing agent to ease the burn of dead flesh prickling back to life.

Beneath her undershirt she was all lean muscle and a fair number of scars, and she’d held herself still as he carefully smoothed the salve onto the wound, channelling a little Restoration magic into it to encourage the healing process. She shivered at the golden touch of his magic, a few wispy strands of hair that had escaped from her plait glowing like a halo of flame around her head. He’d bandaged the wound up afterwards, and found himself watching her face as he wrapped the clean linen around her shoulder, the way her eyes slid closed, heavy-lidded.

“It might leave a scar,” he’d warned her, as he packaged up the salve. She’d smiled wearily at him.

“Well, if it does, it won’t be lonely,” she said, with a jut of her chin, a faint challenge in her eyes. He’d handed over the package, thinking, _Gods, you’re lovely_.

It was the same thing he was thinking now, even with his back discreetly turned while she stripped down to her underclothes, his heart twisting at her quiet grunt of pain. Bruises were already blossoming on her chest and back, enough that he couldn’t stop his hiss of shock at the sight of them.

He’d exhausted his stock of ingredients, so it was to what little Restoration magic he had that he turned; instead of a balm or a healing potion, it was the quiet intimacy of his hands on her skin and the feeling of her cracked bones knitting back together. Her muscles flexed beneath the touch of his hands, her fingers biting deep into the blankets. He didn’t have much magicka left, but he gave her what little there was, channelled it into her, every drop, until the golden surge of energy fizzled out and he was left gasping and as spent as if they’d spent the night fucking, staring down at how her linen undershirt was rucked up, revealing the lean muscular planes of her back, the scars on her skin.

Beneath him, she rolled over. Her hair come loose from her plait, spreading across the blankets, sticking to her forehead. He brushed it away tenderly, and she tilted her head in expectation. It was the same gesture she’d made after a few shared drinks at Candlehearth Hall months ago, inviting him to kiss her. And he wanted to, gods how he wanted to; already his body was responding, for all that he was heart-sore and weary to the bone, but he held back.

“You’re still annoyed at me,” she said.

“No,” he said and meant it. “You’ve done so much for me and for Nurelion too. I could never be angry at you. It’s been a difficult night.” And the longer it went on, the more his fear grew: it was getting harder to deny that now. He’d thought he’d left all that behind him in Cyrodiil, that Windhelm was far enough away that it would always be safe from the Dominion. “Jora and Lortheim, the priests from the Temple of Talos, what will happen to them?”

“If they have any sense, they’ll run.”

He shook his head wearily. “They’re both far too proud for that.”

“Then gods help them both.” She reached out and caught hold of his hand, entwining her fingers through his. “It had to be done, Quintus.”

“Did it? Forgive me, but I remember what Cyrodiil was like--”

“And you think I don’t? How long have you been in Skyrim? Almost seven years? Well, it’s worse back home now. Much worse. And I won’t lie to you, it’s going to get worse here too before it gets any better, but the war had to be brought to an end quickly, one way or another. If I’m certain of anything, I’m certain of that.” She looked exhausted, too tired to hide the glimmer of doubt in her eyes. She didn’t quite believe it, he realised uneasily, or else she wasn’t entirely certain she’d picked the right side.

“Can I ask you something?” he said, because he didn’t much like that thought. “What really happened to Jarl Ulfric? Everyone’s saying the Thalmor want him. Is he...”

“He’s dead.”

“You’re sure?”

She gave a single emphatic jerk of her head. “I’m the one that killed him. The Thalmor won’t be getting their hands on him. I owed him that much at least.”

When she held her arm out, he hesitated, then settled onto the bed beside her, planting a kiss on her shoulder. “I just wish you’d told me. Not about the battle. I understand you had obligations to the Legion. It’s… everything else. You come and you go and I never know if I’m going to see you from one day to the next. Were you ever going to tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“Anything. How you found the Phial or what happened with the dragons, or how in the name of the gods you managed to get unmelting snow from the Throat of the World... I heard you booked a berth on a boat heading to Solstheim a few months ago. Were you ever going to tell me any of this?”

“You’re better off not knowing.” She hesitated, seeming at a loss for words, then she shifted on the narrow bed, wriggling around to face him. “I like it here, Quintus. I like that there’s at least one place where I get to come and be myself for a little while, rather than the godsforsaken legend that’s building up around me. I never asked for any of this.”

“Antonia.” He hesitated. “You do realise that...”

“That it’s over,” she said bitterly. “And that I’m the one who destroyed it. Yes, I’m very aware of that.”

“I wouldn’t say destroyed.”

“No?”

“It’s different. It won’t ever be the same again, but it’s… it’s like the Phial,” he said, with a sudden rush of inspiration. “Damaged, but not necessarily beyond repair.”

She half-smiled. “Now there’s a pleasant thought.”

“What happened to it? Did you bring it with you?”

She shook her head. “I keep it on display at my house in Whiterun. It’s useful, but it represented Nurelion’s life’s work, and with the life I lead, I didn’t much like the idea of it being forgotten again in a cave somewhere.”

“I don’t like the idea of _you_ being forgotten in a cave either. The Phial’s just a thing. You’re...”

“What?”

 _Lovely,_ he thought. _Dangerous._ _Terrifying._

In answer, he placed his hand hand on her cheek, his thumb brushing along her cheekbone. Her eyes met his, and she tilted her head again in invitation, and this time he did kiss her, gently at first, but deepening as she opened her mouth to his. And then he was pulling her undershirt over her head, and skimming his alchemy-stained fingers over the silvery scar the ice wraith had left, a slash across her heart.

He cupped her breast as she tugged at the fastenings of his braies, his hand working between her legs. He gently kissed her throat from behind as she pressed back against him, her body fitting to his as though they’d been made for each other.

He caught her thigh, pressed himself inside her while she ground herself back against him, pulling his hand down between her legs so he could feel the place where he entered her.

They found their rhythm, which was slow and almost lazy, a gentle rocking motion, with the warmth of her against his chest, his lips at her throat. In the moments before she came, she reached back and knotted her fingers in his hair, twisting around to kiss him.

Afterwards they lay entwined in the warmth and dubious comfort of a bed that was really too small for them both, his hands gently stroking her back, her hair, her spine.

“Just promise me one thing,” he murmured, already on the verge of drifting off himself. “Give me some warning before you go?”

If she answered him, he didn’t hear her, but when he woke up in the morning she was gone.

* * *

This being Windhelm it had snowed again overnight. The city was pristine again, the snow muffling the streets with a blanket of peace, covering even the ruins of the barricades from view. In the grey light of the morning, it was almost possible to believe that nothing of significance had happened, that the city of Windhelm was just the same as it had ever been, as unchanging since the days of Ysgramor.

The Imperials were in the process of packing up their camp, ready for the long journey back to Solitude, but any army travelled slowly when there was no pressing urgency, and they’d be leaving a presence behind in any case.

Despite the early start, Quintus spotted the military governor himself, a tall, stone-faced man with cropped silver hair in discussion with one of his legates. He kept an eye out for Antonia but saw no sign of her. Nor was Claudine in the healers’ tent, but another healer took the list he’d thrown together and promised to pass it on to her, then took advantage of his presence to give him a list of her own, ingredients she wanted to procure. He promised to see what he could do, and then asked her, as if it was something that had just occurred to him and not the most pressing issue on his mind, whether she’d seen Antonia.

The healer had but not for a couple of hours at least: she’d turned up for just long enough to pick up her things and had then vanished again. Most likely she’d moved on already. She was like that, the Dragonborn. A law unto herself.

He trudged back across the city, which was just starting to shake off the torpor of sleep. In the market square, the traders were beginning to set out their stalls. Outside the door to the White Phial he hesitated, then turned and crossed the square to where Niranye was arranging assorted goods on her stall.

“Is there something I can help you with, Quintus?”

“As a matter of fact,” he said, scanning her stall and fixing on the particular item he was after, “there is.”

* * *

He hadn’t been sure how long it would take before he’d see Antonia again, and had been fully prepared for it to take weeks or months perhaps, but in the end, it wasn’t nearly long as he’d been fearing. She was already there when he let himself in, burrowed down beneath the covers of his bed. She was drowsing, but stirred when he stripped off to his underclothes and crawled in beside her.

“I thought you’d already left,” he said.

“Without telling you?” she murmured. “I promised you I wouldn’t. I had to pick up my things from the camp.” She reached out a limp hand, gesturing in the general direction of the bedside table. “I bought you a present.”

“Oh?” He turned, and reached for the package on the bedside table, and unwrapped it to reveal a book. “ _De Rerum Dirennis_?”

“Mmm. I picked it up in Solstheim,” she said. “Well… in a manner of speaking. I actually pulled that particular copy out of Oblivion itself.”

A shiver crept through him. “Oblivion?”

“Apocrypha, specifically. It’s a long story. Tedious and bloody.”

He turned a page, casting his gaze over the closely written pages. “I should like to hear it.”

“And I’d like to tell you, Quintus. Just let me sleep for a little while longer, all right? Right now I feel like I could sleep for a week. When I wake up, I’ll tell you anything you want, I promise.”

He nodded, closed the book and set it aside to study more closely later. “That seems like a fair deal,” he said, lying down beside her. She settled into his arms, snuggling into him.

“By the way, I picked the lock to let myself in,” she said sleepily. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“You’re a woman of many talents.”

“Oh gods, you have no idea,” she murmured, but she was smiling. He brushed his lips across the top of her head and made a mental note to dig out a spare key as soon as possible. The last thing they needed was her getting arrested.

The Amulet of Mara, bought on a whim and hidden in the pocket of his braies, could probably wait a little while longer.


End file.
